The Final Dance
by theladyofwonderland
Summary: It was a simple idea-Reed would go dancing with Shane. Nothing more, nothing less. But when alcohol and a stranger get involved, things don't always go the way it's planned. Warning: Character death


**AN: ****SO. Yeah. My fluffy angst crap. I literally don't even know what I'm writing right now.**

**Summary: It all started with Shane asking Reed to go dancing with him. Just a simple question, as the dancer had always wanted to take the klutzy artist dancing. Of course, with Reed being as uncoordinated as he was, the night had a large potential of ending in disaster.**

**But little did they know disaster was an understatement.**

"Reed? Are you ready yet? Reeeeeed!" Shane asked, bouncing around the door of his boyfriend's room.

From his seat at his desk, Kurt shot his best friend's boyfriend a glare, before returning to his homework, muttering something along the lines of 'over-excitable spaz'.

Shane ignored him and continued bouncing in place excitedly.

Finally, the strawberry blonde emerged from the bathroom, picking invisible lint off of his shirt. "I'm ready?" he squeaked.

"Come on! Let's go! It'll be fun!" the still excited Anderson proclaimed, grabbing Reed's hand.

Reed sent Kurt a look that clearly read 'help me', and his roommate laughed. "Calm down, Reed. What's the worst that can happen?"

Reed sent him a withering glare as he was dragged out the door. "Oh, I don't know, I could fall and die?" he said, and he could have sworn he heard Kurt laughing from their room.

By now, he was nearly at the stairs, and, with a huff, he grabbed Shane's hand firmly in his and continued down the stairs, managing not to trip.

The walk to Reed's car was uneventful, as was the ride there. They arrived, handing the keys to the valet, and stood outside the establishment, a simple building, with a stereotypical neon sign and the sound of music coming from the inside.

"Are you sure about this?" Reed asked nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

"Which this? Using fake IDs or taking you dancing?"

"Both."

"Yes. To both. Come on, it'll be fun!"

Reed sighed. "You're paying my medical bill."

Shane laughed and squeezed his hand reassuringly, before walking calmly into the club.

It was exactly how Reed had imagined—colorful, loud, and smelling of booze and expensive perfume. It wasn't exactly his ideal way to spend his Friday night, but it made Shane happy, so he was willing to give it a go.

Reed had never been the best dancer—dancing required coordination, after all, which is something he's always lacked. Yet somehow, Shane had a way of making Reed's movements look good. Whenever he tripped, or missed a step, or something of the sort, Shane would pull him up and twirl him, making it look as if his mistakes were just part of a complicated routine.

Despite his initial apprehension, Reed was actually enjoying himself. Not necessarily the dancing, just being there with Shane. Something about seeing him enjoying himself so much, and doing what he loved to do, wiped away all precaution, and, next thing he knew, there was alcohol involved.

When he agreed to this, he hadn't even thought about the fact that they were going to a place that served alcohol. He was more thinking along the lines of _'how the hell am I going to manage to not look like an idiot in front of Shane'_.

But now that the alcohol was free-flowing, he mentally smacked himself for not thinking about the obvious. He knew Shane wouldn't pressure him to drink, but he also didn't know whether or not Shane would be drinking.

He tried to think back to the Tweedle's New Year's party, but couldn't remember whether or not the dancer had indulged in any alcohol. It was only when Shane had ordered two of something or another that Reed decided to just go with it. One drink couldn't hurt, right?

But then that one turned into two, then three. Before he knew it, they were both drunk, and their dancing had gotten much sloppier, and more provocative. Reed had managed to fall over at least twice already, and Shane was having a harder time catching him.

However, they were still having fun, and Reed had managed to not hurt himself to badly yet. A little while after his third drink, Reed excused himself to go to the bathroom, leaving Shane dancing like an idiot—a skilled idiot, mind you—when things started going downhill.

After relieving himself, Reed stepped out of the bathroom—and straight into a tall brunette.

"Sorry!" Reed exclaimed from where he had been knocked to the floor.

The stranger smiled at him and offered a hand, hoisting the strawberry blonde to his feet. "My fault. You okay?" he asked, scanning Reed for any injuries.

"I'm fine. I fall a lot, so I'm kind of used to it." Reed said awkwardly, fidgeting a little. Something about the man's gaze made him uncomfortable. "I'm Reed." '_Why did I just tell this stranger my name?' _the only non-foggy part of his brain screamed at him, while the intoxicated part of his brain was clapping for him.

"I'm Grant."

There was an awkward pause in which both simply stared at each other, and then Reed started giggling.

"I should probably get back to my boyfriend." Reed said, gesturing towards where Shane was. It looked as if the dancer hadn't even noticed his absence, if his gyrating hips were any indication.

He slipped away from the stranger—Grant—and made his way over to Shane. Even as he began dancing again, he could feel the gaze of the other man burning a hole in his back. (Metaphorically, of course. He wasn't _that _drunk).

After a large amount of dancing—or, in Reed's case, falling—Shane declared it was time to take a break and dragged the painter over to a booth.

A few seconds later, Grant slid into the seat opposite them. "Hello again. Mind if I sit here?" he asked coolly.

Reed opened his mouth to say something, but Shane beat him to it. "Yeah, sure, whatever." He said, not really paying much attention. The curly haired dancer was starting to look tired.

Reed ran a hand through Shane's hair as the latter started up a very drunk conversation with Grant.

Before he knew it, Shane was asleep on his shoulder. Grant was still there, staring silently at the strawberry blonde.

"I should probably… get him home." The painter said, trying to think of any excuse to leave. Something about the seemingly harmless man's gaze unsettled him.

"Here, I'll help you to your car." Grant said, getting to his feet and helping Reed hold up Shane.

Reed wanted to protest, but the still drunk part of his brain—he had started to sober up, finally—said Grant was just trying to be helpful. And so he allowed the brunette to help him get Shane to his car.

It was late, or early, depending on your view, when they exited the establishment. They sat Shane down on a bench and waited as the valet went to get their car.

It was silent, none of them moving, except for Reed, who kept fidgeting.

And then, without warning, Grant pulled out a gun. Reed, who had been facing the other way, saw nothing, only heard the swish of the other man's jacket.

And then, with a deafening bang, Grant pulled the trigger, and Reed sank to the ground.

The bang woke Shane up with a start, and he turned to see Reed on the ground, bleeding heavily, and Grant's form getting smaller and smaller in the distance. He fumbled with his phone, trying to contain his panic as he dialed 911.

The valet still wasn't back yet, and the ambulances wouldn't be there for at least ten minutes.

With shaking hands, Shane bent down and tried to stop the bleeding as best as he could, but the sticky red liquid kept pooling around them. Reed had long since lost consciousness, but he still had a pulse. Shane kept checking this, and realized with a start that the boy he loved's pulse was quickly slowing.

He let out a strangled sob, murmuring nonsense, doing all he could possibly think of to keep the small painter alive. He heard the whine of sirens in the distance, and prayed they would get there quickly.

They were too late. Reed Van Kamp was pronounced dead at 2:19 am, and his shooter was never caught.


End file.
